


A Cold Christmas (Warmed Over)

by CumbersomeWit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV John Watson, Sherlock Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumbersomeWit/pseuds/CumbersomeWit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm staring at the wall, holding a Christmas present for a dead man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cold Christmas (Warmed Over)

**Author's Note:**

> Something small to celebrate Christmas and, in conjunction, our Sherlock mini episode! Can be interpreted as some sort of pre-reveal, unrequited Sherlock/John, but mostly it's just John being sad. Poor baby.
> 
> This has not been beta'd. If you notice any mistakes, feel free to point them out. I would be indebted to you.

 

Mrs. Hudson’s been dropping by a lot lately. I think she thinks I’m lonely. She wouldn't be wrong. I’ve become too quiet, I can tell. I’m just keeping still, making sure I don't miss the elusive memory of your voice. A low hum from the stereo on the telly, quietly deducing how I’m coping, how well I’ve been sleeping, what I’ll be doing for Christmas. It wouldn’t be a hard deduction. Wouldn’t be hard to believe that you have left a part of yourself here, the basics of your soul seeped into the wallpaper, your mind palace laid out for public consumption.

I look down at my lap, at the silent, harmless object lying on my thighs, so light I can pretend it’s not even there. I can’t bear to look at it. I look at the wallpaper instead. I’ve done it, Ella. I’ve finally cracked it. Staring at the wall, holding a Christmas present for a dead man. Stuff me in a strait jacket and take me away. Jesus.

I don’t know. I don’t know, Sherlock. Sometimes I just do things now. I’ve become a living contradiction. I can’t stand still but I can’t move on, not from this. Not from you. So sometimes I do things, like find you Christmas presents when you’re dead.

I know how that sounds. I can’t help what I do when it comes to you, and it’s not like I went _looking_ for a present. Greg invites me around the Met sometimes, yeah? There’s a bar across the road. We go for drinks. I’ll stop by his office and wait for him to finish up and sometimes, rarely, he’ll ask me to look at cases. Like I could ever help. But sometimes I do, Sherlock, like maybe I’ve spent so much time thinking about you that I’ve kept you alive, inside me, kept your brain moving at a hundred kilometres an hour next to mine.

I never looked at this case, but he gave it to me, like he knew. This case I have wrapped in shiny red wrapping paper and labelled with your name. The perfect case.

You would have loved it. It’s cold. More than fifty years. Based in London, too. Eight identical murders spanning over one and a half decades; one wrongly apprehended suspect, one suicide. Not the killer, they said, just another inexplicable link. A challenge. A mystery. You’d have loved it. I know you would have.

This is what I am now, Sherlock. A case filled with the debris of what you’ve left behind. I haven’t been a whole man for a long time, not even with you, but now I can open myself up and see where you’ve been, how you’ve changed me, what you’ve taken. What I’ve become in your absence.

So I put down your present behind the armchair where I can’t see it and drink the tea Mrs. Hudson made me, because it’s what I would have done any other day. What we would have done. The tea is lukewarm. I grimace. She must have been gone a while. Jesus, I don’t even remember her closing the door.

I put up the Christmas tree, Sherlock. The same one we put up last year. I imagine I can smell your scent on it, like it’s been preserved in that box for an entire year, just for this moment. So much happened with this tree. Irene. Molly. Christ, when was the last time I saw Molly? It’s been so long. I hadn’t even realised. There are so many things I’m missing, so many things I’ll never find.

I look down at your present. The present that will never be opened. I’ve wrapped it so carefully, too, like it matters, like you could appreciate the aesthetic of sharp, solid corners.

I want to put it under the tree. Presents belong under the tree on Christmas Eve. But where am I going to put it after that? After Christmas has come and gone? Do I pack it up with the tree? Pack you up and put you away?

God. I can’t think about that.

I don’t know where else to put it, though. This little impulsive thing of mine. Of yours. But most of what is yours is what is mine, now, anyway. You jumped off a building and suddenly I’m not myself anymore. I’m everything I used to be before you, except now I’m losing all of it, watching it bleed into the dark cavities of what I used to be, with you. Parts of me I’ll never get back.

I get up. Circle the armchair and pick up your present. I am standing with your present in the middle of this room. This room we used to share. I can’t think about that. I go to the tree, run my hand over the bristles. Feel it. It smells like tinsel, but I close my eyes and imagine it smells like you. Like us. We have shared everything in this room, except for this present. So I open my eyes and put it under the tree, next to the one Mrs. Hudson gave me. It will never be opened. But that’s okay. It’s okay, Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

I wake up cold. It’s freezing up here. I’ve forgotten to close the window. It’s Christmas, of course it’s cold. I’ve kicked the blankets off the bed at some point during the night, too. I don’t remember the nightmare. It must have been about you.

I get out of bed, tuck my feet into my slippers and trudge downstairs. It’s warmer down here. The windows are closed, and Mrs. Hudson’s turned up the boiler. That was nice of her. There’s a bit of sun peeking through the windows. That’s nice, too. Don’t get much sun these days. But a bit of sun on Christmas morning, that’s nice. Better.

I make myself a cup of tea and some toast. I lather on the jam, the way you used to hate. You can’t stop me now, Sherlock. You can’t tell me how to eat my breakfast anymore.

Jesus. I don’t make this any easier on myself.

I don’t want to.

This is all methodical now. Thinking of you and switching the kettle on. Muscle memory. I do not need to worry on mornings like these. But today’s different, Sherlock, isn’t it? It’s Christmas. The first Christmas I’ll spend without you. I’m hiding in here, this place still filled with your presence. Except it’s not. And mostly that’s painful but sometimes, very rarely, I look at your skull or the knife marks on the table I never asked you about, and it helps. To know that I’m still here, even if parts of me are missing. Even if you’re not here too.

Christ, it’s already past eleven. Mrs. Hudson will be here soon. Seeing if I need anything, wishing me a happy Christmas. She’ll be here any moment. I should probably open her present. It’s still under the tree. That’s the polite thing to do, isn’t it? Open someone’s present before they come to visit?

I crouch at the tree. It’s so much taller than me, like this. It kind of reminds me of you. All your angles, your long limbs, the way you filled up a room. You’re prickly personality. I feel a smile tug at my lips and hold my breath. It feels foreign, but not wrong. I don’t remember the last time I smiled.

What’s this? Mrs. Hudson’s present has been moved. Did I put it there, so far away? I don’t remember. I don’t remember much anymore, I suppose. That’s alright. It’s not unusual. I pick up her present. It’s light; my name’s written on it in glittery silver gel pen. _Dr. John Watson_. So delicate. I wonder if this is how she sees me now.

Something else catches my eye. Your present, tucked behind the tree, half out of sight. Did I put it there? I don’t remember. But something looks off. I lean closer and my hearts stutters, sinks. The wrapping’s been torn. Christ, has Mrs. Hudson been down here to see it? She’ll think I’ve gone bonkers. She’d be right, I think. But it wouldn’t do to worry her on Christmas. What the hell was I thinking?

I pick up your present. The wrapping’s all over the place. What did Mrs. Hudson do to it? God. Oh, hang on a second. There’s something attached to the top of it. A piece of paper? I pull it off, turn it over.

Everything narrows to this point.

The paper is so soft between my fingertips, like it’s been handled for a long time. Left in a pocket, opened and closed along the same seams, the fibers curling at the edges. I inhale and do not remember to release the breath. I have to sit down. I can’t reach the chair.

This is your handwriting, Sherlock. I know it is. This is your chaotic scrawl and fancy lettering and the way the text slants across the page. This is yours.

This is _you_.

 

_It is the deceased manager of the flower shop; the one on the corner of Bart’s._

_Merry Christmas, John._

_\- SH_


End file.
